


(traveled two hundred miles) i'm knockin' at your door

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Personality Swap AU, Unhappy Ending, set after the miklan chapter, this is hurt no comfort masquerading as poorly-handled hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: The last mission had been one straight out of the old wives’ tales meant to scare clueless children into behaving, complete with shitty kids who never ate their vegetables turning into beasts. It was over with now, Miklan’s corpse probably still rotting at Conand Tower. No worse than he deserved, so weak that he had turned to the family relic for scraps of strength rather than finding it on his own.The doorknob clicks and he tenses. Fucking hell. He’s sure he locked it.Sylvain looks up, irritation spiking. “I said, fuck off—”Felix stares back at him, eyebrow quirked.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	(traveled two hundred miles) i'm knockin' at your door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [postfixrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/gifts).
  * Inspired by [all on the edge (just like you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22265272) by [postfixrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution). 



> for kamu! thank you for letting me commit crimes in your universe!
> 
> this is set in [postfixrevolution's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution) [sylvix personality](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602745) [swap au](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341601). please read it if you have not!! she gave me her brainworms, and i, being me, turned them angsty, and thus this was born.

The knock at Sylvain’s door is anything but polite. 

“Fuck off, Ingrid.” Sylvain doesn’t look up, running his whetstone once more against the blade of his lance. 

He’s tired, he doesn’t have the time for her overbearing mothering and complaints that he’s being anti-social and rude. Not when every month brings another threat, another nightmare, another chance for them all to die miserable, painful deaths. 

If she has time to nag him, she has time to focus that energy into honing her own blade. Though, she’ll never catch up, not with over two years and just over twenty centimeters difference between them. Maybe His Highness will be up for a round or two as well—he’s the only one who can keep up with Sylvain, the brute strength granted by his Crest an edge that chafes against Sylvain’s careful training. 

The last mission had been one straight out of the old wives’ tales meant to scare clueless children into behaving, complete with shitty kids who never ate their vegetables turning into beasts. It was over with now, Miklan’s corpse probably still rotting at Conand Tower. No worse than he deserved, so weak that he had turned to the family relic for scraps of strength rather than finding it on his own.

The Professor had sent word to Sylvain’s father after the mission, a polite note to say his goodbyes to his firstborn and once-heir, an implicit request for the Gautiers to provide support and cleanup in the aftermath. Sylvain doubts it had been read. 

One more careful stroke of the whetstone, then another. It’s almost soothing, the rhythmic movements a lullaby promising battle-readiness. 

Sylvain can feel some of the week’s tension ebbing. 

The doorknob clicks and he tenses. Fucking hell. He’s sure he locked it. 

Sylvain looks up, irritation spiking. “I _said_ , fuck off—”

Felix stares back at him, eyebrow quirked. 

Sylvain lets out a scoff. He needs to have words with Ashe about teaching Felix how to lockpick. 

He scowls. “What do you want.”

Felix shrugs, expansive and meaningless, the door drifting shut behind him. Sylvain can feel his lips curl instinctively at the sharp, crafted, and carefree expression decorating Felix’s face, the calculating look, the disgustingly coy smolder of his eyes. 

Felix pouts infinitesimally. “Can’t a guy just want to see how his best friend is doing?”

Sylvain snorts. “Sure. Some guys, not you. Just tell me what you want you and get out.” He shoots Felix a glare. Felix doesn’t so much as flinch, his lips twitching into a smirk as their eyes meet. “Don’t you have women to bother or something? Problems to cause Ingrid? A life you’re hellbent on wasting?”

Felix grins, his perfect teeth bared. The whole look is broad and vacuous—more like a grimace than a grin. “I was thinking we could do that last one together. C’mon Syl, don’t just hole up in your room, it’s not good for you.”

“You wouldn’t know anything about what’s good for anyone. I’d rather stay in and train any day than join you in your pointless conquests.” Sylvain pauses. His voice drops into venom. “If only Glenn could see how you’ve squandered everything.”

Something flashes in Felix’s eyes before he shrugs again. “Or we can just spend some time together. Hang out, y’know, just the two of us.”

“No thanks. Close the door behind you on your way out.”

Felix ignores him, dropping down on the bed. His dirt-covered boots find their way onto the sheets and Sylvain represses a wince. Felix is well aware that Sylvain likes his spaces clean and orderly; he’s doing this specifically to rile Sylvain up and it’s unfortunately working.

Sylvain glares darkly in a frustrated attempt to bore holes into Felix’s head as he makes himself at home, but Felix continues to ignore him. 

After a long moment filled with nothing but Felix’s blasé attitude, Sylvain grunts, defeated. “If you have to stay and bother me, at least don’t track crap onto my bed.”

“Oh no! How could I forget?” Felix’s voice is saccharine as he sits up again, and he winks as he bends over. Sylvain knows the view of his neck and the arch of his back are intentional, but he can’t stop his eyes from tracking Felix’s movements anyway, following the effortless curl of a few strands of dark hair framing Felix’s carefully-pampered skin. “Sure thing, Syl. I can take these off for you anytime.”

Felix runs his hands down along his legs, letting his body roll slightly. 

“On second thought, keep them on.” Sylvain tears his eyes away, not quite able to focus on the tools shaking slightly in his hands. “And get out of my room.”

There’s a beat accented by twin thuds as Felix’s boots drop to the floor. The bed creaks as he lies back again.

Sylvain waits for Felix to speak again, but silence hangs in the air. 

Something between a handful of seconds and several minutes pass before Sylvain huffs out an aggravated sigh, returning to the task at hand. The only sound that passes between them is the quiet grinding of whetstone against steel. 

The slightly-tense peace doesn’t last long. Sylvain only gets a couple minutes to try to find his rhythm again before Felix begins humming, something nonsensical and spritely—it’s vaguely familiar, but Sylvain can’t quite place it. More importantly, it’s distracting, and the last several strokes of whetstone against lance are unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with the image of Felix’s hair falling carelessly out of its bun burned into the back of his eyelids. 

Sylvain scowls down at his hands, not quite ready to trust himself to look at Felix again. “Knock it off.” 

Felix stops, tilting his head to peer over at Sylvain. “Knock _what_ off?”

“The humming.”

“Why? Is it bothering you?” Sylvain can hear the frown in his voice. Like he doesn’t know.

“Yes.”

Felix sighs and settles back down, no longer humming but almost audibly sulking instead.

Sylvain doesn’t get why he won’t just leave. 

He finds the beat again, the weapon in his hands verging on ideal as he perfects its edge. A good weapon is an extension of the hands. Of the self. In many ways, it is the truest form of self, an essence distilled to its most basic purpose, to be retired once it’s worn too thin and no more value can be extracted. 

The metallic edge gleams lazily in the sunlight streaming through the window as Sylvain examines it, assessing the quality of his work. If the reflection shines into Felix’s eyes, eliciting a small, disgruntled yelp, Sylvain pays it no mind. It’s a good lance, ready for the next battle, no longer bearing traces of Demonic Beast and the cold damp of northern Faerghus’s summers.

Sylvain places it, waiting, beside the Lance of Ruin propped in a dimmest corner of the room. The Lance of Ruin wriggles, just a little, and Sylvain can’t quite hold back his own shudder.

His fingers flex unconsciously, uncomfortable now that their task is completed. 

He’s out of weapons in his personal collection that need care, but Garreg Mach has no shortage of those elsewhere. There’s a silver axe in the armory he’s been meaning to try to get the hang of, though the Professor hasn’t yet given him permission to use it. The idea that they don’t think he’s skilled enough to wield the weapon _rankles_. They don’t know what they’re talking about. 

He could also just leave, head down to the training yard, but he’d that would likely mean running into Ingrid or His Highness, both of whom would insist on coddling him about their recent mission. The one good thing about Felix is that he’s so busy making himself a bother in various girls’ lives that he doesn’t have time to pester Sylvain.

Felix’s voice floats through his thoughts, his form still lazily prone across Sylvain’s bed. The tone is unreadable, almost unsure. “I know you don’t think I care, but I came here to ask. Are… are you okay? If you need anything, I’m still your friend, Syl. Just tell me.”

Apparently Sylvain can’t have _any_ peace from his so-called friends.

“I’m fine.”

The bed creaks as Felix props himself up, his eyes piercing when Sylvain meets them. “I promise. I—I know I’m not always the best friend or the kind of friend you want, but. I’m here for you.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”

Felix pushes himself up, walks over, crowds himself into Sylvain’s space. Sylvain backs away unsteadily, stopping only when his legs bump against the bed. Felix reaches a hand to brush back Sylvain’s bangs, letting his hand caress Sylvain’s cheek as it falls down to Sylvain’s shoulder.

Sylvain can’t quite stop his breath from hitching.

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I mean it, Syl. I care about you. I’ll do whatever you need. I can be whatever you need.”

That’s not quite right. The cadence of Felix’s voice sounds hollow, like there’s something missing. Sylvain can’t figure out what. 

There are words, somewhere, buried in the back of his throat, but he can’t get them out. His face burns as Felix looks at him—just looks at him, raw and kind, like he could ever feel anything for Sylvain. Like anyone could feel something for a man who’s dedicated himself to being the weapon who protects his friends, and nothing more.

He doesn’t need the pity behind Felix’s gaze. He kind of wants to tear it out. 

Sylvain is the sentinel who stands to the north, who guards those within, who exists only to live and die by his lance, another in an unending line of generations. Emotions won’t warm him against the cold.

“Let me comfort you. Let me help.” Barely a whisper, but it’s loud in the air between them. Felix’s gaze drops to Sylvain’s lips and Sylvain’s pulse jumps impossibly faster, his heart pounding like it’s trying to hammer its way out of his chest.

The arm on Sylvain’s shoulder slowly snakes its way around his neck as Felix tilts up, his expression softer than Sylvain has seen it since before Glenn’s death—from before Felix decided to throw away everything that they had all cherished about Felix’s knightly brother. Felix looks at him like he’s porcelain, like anything but sugary-sweet affection will break him.

Sylvain can’t tell if it’s real. 

Felix’s lips just miss his, pressing far too gently against the corner of his mouth. They travel down, the kisses hesitant as Felix’s breath tickles his jaw, and his eyes slip closed as Sylvain continues to stand, frozen.

He continues mouthing along Sylvain’s jaw and neck, hands running through his hair. Sylvain’s hands twitch, an uncontrolled, untrained, unrestrainable urge gripping him. He clenches them into fists, holding still even as shuddering breath after shuddering breath escapes him.

Felix leans back slightly, his lips theatrically downturned. “Gonna need you to help me out here, a little, Syl.”

“What are you doing?”

Felix smiles, a small fire in the corner of his eye. “Let me make you feel better.”

There it is again. Something in Felix’s words is sour, _performative_ , but Sylvain can’t quite latch onto what despite scrabbling against it. Sylvain wants to pick at more, to figure out what it is, but all the blood in his body is very quickly leaving his brain behind.

Felix’s voice is teasing. “I know you don’t have a chance to get out much, but… I’ll teach you.”

It’s tempting. It’s _so_ tempting, and everything that has haunted a few of Sylvain’s worst dreams. 

“I—I…” Sylvain inhales sharply.

“Shh…” Felix whispers. “It’s okay, let me help you.”

This time, Felix presses their mouths together. Sylvain can’t hear anything, can’t feel anything but the brands of Felix’s fingers knotting themselves into his hair and the warm, blissful softness of Felix’s lips against his.

Felix leans forward, pressing their bodies together and gently rolling his hips forward. The friction is earth-shattering, and Sylvain chases it as he messily follows Felix’s lips. It’s a little awkward, and it’s definitely wetter than he expected, but it’s still everything and more that Sylvain has dreamt of.

Felix pushes against him and they collapse back against the bed, a tangle of limbs. The victorious smirk adorning Felix’s lips makes Sylvain’s heart skip another beat, stuttering as it attempts to find its rhythm. In response, Sylvain’s lips twitch into something like a smile, its form uncomfortable and long-forgotten. Felix lets himself fall against Sylvain, his weight solid and comforting on Sylvain’s chest.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain spots the Lance of Ruin shiver again and suppresses a shudder.

Felix gives him a searching look. “Let me help you,” he says again.

“I—yeah. Okay.” 

They kiss, every minute an age to learn something new, to unwind something tight within Sylvain’s chest. A forever later, Felix pulls back, bun half undone from when Sylvain’s hands have apparently found their home. There’s a twisting sensation in Sylvain’s chest. Felix is beautiful, and he’s here, against all odds.

Felix looks at him—really just looks at him, gaze warm and almost vulnerable, honest enough that Sylvain can almost trust it—like he’s a person. Sylvain wishes it could be true. A voice that sounds like Miklan echoes hollow laughter in the back of his mind. 

Felix presses a light peck against Sylvain’s lips, his eyes sparkling. “I’m going to try something,” he says, hands skating down the length of Sylvain’s body. “Sit up.”

Sylvain scoots back, rushing to obey. His veins hum with the thrill of anticipation, bolstered by the amusement and hunger in Felix’s eyes. 

Felix takes his time, slowly unbuttoning Sylvain’s shirt like unwrapping a present—he presses light kisses a line down Sylvain’s torso until he’s lying between Sylvain’s legs, eye to eye with Sylvain’s very obvious boner. 

Felix’s smirk widens slightly as Sylvain stares at him, face flaming. Felix licks his lips, his eye contact careful and measured as he brings a hand to trail against the outline of Sylvain’s cock. The touch sends goosebumps down Sylvain’s arms and back and he lets out a quiet, involuntary groan.

“Mmm, Syl. Gonna make you feel good.”

There’s still something in Felix’s tone scratching against the back of Sylvain’s mind, but it’s so small, so imperceptible next to the raging fire of lust crashing through his veins that it washes away quickly.

Felix unlaces Sylvain’s pants, each brush of his fingers more potent than the last. He lightly taps against the back of Sylvain’s thigh, and Sylvain complies, leaning up to let Felix pull his pants down to mid-thigh.

Felix presses a hot, wet kiss to the tip of Sylvain’s erection through the fabric still covering it, and Sylvain moans, low and guttural. He’s starting to see what draws Felix to wasting so much time chasing sex.

“Goddess, you’re big.”

The wrongness of those words hits clearer than before, but Sylvain struggles to understand through the haze of desire rapidly engulfing his entire being. It’s impossible to think with the Felix’s mouth doing _that_. 

Felix moans, purposeful and erotic, as he licks a wet stripe against Sylvain’s underclothes, the sound reverberating and sending another hot spike of arousal through Sylvain. He’s not sure he’s ever been harder in his life.

“Gonna make you feel so good you forget.”

Sylvain finds a moment of clarity though his lust.

Forget? Forget what?

It clicks into place. 

Forget Miklan. Forget the mission. Forget that Sylvain’s lance had been the one to pierce his brother’s chest. Forget the last words of hatred before Miklan had succumbed to the Relic now innocuously leaning against the corner of this very room. 

Understanding crashes heavily into Sylvain, winding him even as he lies in his bed.

Felix is here, _comforting_ Sylvain, _fucking_ him like he’s one of his girls—offering up his body like he’s a cheap prostitute. 

All while Miklan’s corpse hasn’t evenly properly cooled and been buried away, a rotting, wretched mess abandoned in the north. 

As much as Sylvain wants this—and he _does_ , he hates that does, he tried to bury these urges long ago and they still keep gripping him—this is nothing to Felix. Just another meaningless tryst.

And he’s acting as though this is what Sylvain has ever wanted from him. As though Sylvain could be one of the girls Felix disdains, chasing him for his Major Crest. 

It hurts that Felix would think so little of him.

“No.”

Sylvain hates how hoarse and wrecked his voice sounds.

“No?” Felix pulls back slightly and frowns at him. Sylvain instantly misses the wet warmth against his cock, and a wave of disgust washes over him. How could he let Felix do this to him? How could he do this to _Felix_?

“No— _no_ , I can’t be one of your girls, I can’t—don’t just try to offer yourself.” Sylvain’s voice cracks. “I don’t want this—I can’t. I can’t.” A deep, heaving breath. “ _No_.”

Felix looks at him, the sadness in his eyes so faked it makes Sylvain want to retch.

“Let me take your mind off things.” Felix nuzzles against his length and Sylvain’s traitorous hips impulsively twitch upward. 

“I can’t—!” The desperation in Sylvain’s voice reaches a fever pitch as he kicks out, foot meeting Felix’s thigh.

“Wha—Sylvain!”

Sylvain shoves Felix back by the shoulder, ignoring the startled noise that falls from the other’s lips. “Stay—stay the fuck away from me.” Sylvain pushes himself off the bed, frantically pulls up his pants and laces them against his still-erect cock. The fit is wrong, and it hurts, the pressure tight and uncomfortable. 

“I can’t—I won’t be one of your girls.” He’s babbling, leaking ragged emotion. It’s weakness, and he hates it. Sylvain fumbles against the buttons of his shirt, giving up as they defy him. “I _clearly_ don’t know what you think of me, Felix, but I don’t need this. I don’t want this. I’m not them. I’m not _you_.”

There’s a flash of hurt in Felix’s eyes, but Sylvain can’t stop to think about it. He has to get out. 

Training. Training will take his mind off this, off Miklan, off everything that has been wrong. Sylvain blindly makes for the door, roughly shoving his feet into his boots. 

“Sylvain, wait—”

It was a mistake to stay in. Felix flirts like he breathes, uses his body like it’s the only currency he has, and Sylvain let himself be seduced. 

The doorknob is cold and grounding in his hand as he clings to it. It turns easily, even as it rattles against his unsteady grip.

Sylvain’s voice shakes even as he keeps it low and wills it to steady. “When I get back, I want you gone.” He exhales. “I’m not one of your toys.”

He slams the door shut behind him, storming away down the hall. One or two heads turn at his messy appearance, but his glare has been honed just as much as his lancework and they scuttle away when he meets their eyes. 

When he arrives, the yard is, thankfully, empty. Sylvain lets himself stop just inside, something like a sob wracking its way through him. 

A useless emotion belonging to a dulled weapon. A weapon that tore its brother’s heart out but can’t stop itself from coveting things it can’t have, it doesn’t deserve.

Training. That’s the only thing that can sharpen him.

Sylvain gets to it, grabbing an iron lance from the rack as he approaches the yard’s worn and beaten dummies. 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)?


End file.
